


Initiation

by Mother_North, Puniyo



Series: Your faith, In My Hands [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: A lot of introspection, Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Religious Themes, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, faith and guilt, to be updated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_North/pseuds/Mother_North, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: Javier, the new appointed priest of the town, finds himself attracted to the mysterious presence of a young man of pale complexion and obscure hair, even darker than black. What follows is a journey of self-discovery and one that asks - 'where does one's faith reside?'





	1. Part I - The Cassock of Cotton

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all, this is an AU that had been shoved in the drawer for more than one year and that it is finally seeing the light of the day. This story will be heavily based on religion, especially Catholic preaching and practices. It is not a commentary or critique of religion though. It is a story of questioning one's faith and the true meaning behind it. 
> 
> This is a project that was developed with the brilliant mind of my partner in crime and the best friend one could ever ask for --> Mother_North. If you haven't read her works, do yourself a favor and please do so. They are just amazing. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Let me repeat, FICTION. In no way it reflects the authors and the people mentioned. Art for art's sake.

… and thus the woman laid with her belly higher than the first cedar on the hill. Never had her husband and father of the unborn son in her womb seen such paleness on her cheeks and never had his hand failed to touch her forehead that burned with the eruption of lava underneath her skin. ‘Another one to fall ill and succumb’, the villagers said, not one but two lives, inside and outside, the one that lived and the one that was yet to live. She cried of dry tears that came out but could not be seen and coughed of phlegm in hues of crimson and fuchsia, from her lungs and from her heart, and the more she coughed, the more she cried, clutching on her navel, ‘Save my child, please!’

In the same night came he, shepherd of grape soils and sailor of the Eastern waters, to visit the lost lamb that knew not how to return to the cotton pasture. ‘Will you tell me your name child?’ She spoke in broken words and a tongue that few understood, but he did for those who have an open heart comprehends everything. ‘A voice’, she says, ‘a voice’. The lullaby of death she thinks, and she hears it louder and louder as the moon rises with the stars. ‘Not death,’ he holds her hand to his chest, her fingertips on his tunic of cotton, ‘it’s the voice of God, our Lord.’

‘God?’, she asks. He nods, ‘God, who watches your pain and cries with you.’ He wets his thumb with the vial around his neck and a cross on her lips the water makes. ‘May His angels bring His mercy tonight.’ And thus he walked away from her bed and as the sun rose on its clouds of light, the cry of the baby of the dawn was heard in all the village. From his mother, the child drew the nectar and milk drops, and from his father, the strength to open his eyes. Blessed was this house that praised the Lord.

Blessed was this miracle on the palms of Saint Francis Xavier.

 

 

‘And so he, a simple man like all of us here today, reunited in the house of the Lord in this day Sunday of rest, has devoted his time and efforts to spread the words of the Gospel.’

Javier stands in front of the grey veined marble altar, his hands accompanying every single word of his with the utmost dramatism as he reads from the book of psalms and re-tells the narratives to his audience. Young women with children on their laps and farmer in their best suits, a boy with his foot on a white plaster cast and crutches, and dark clad old women coming alive from frescos, the whole church sits to listen to him preaching the sermon in the early hours of that morning.

‘It is not a world of material richness that He wants us to achieve. It’s not a silver coin tree that we must plant or a throne of gold for me, or for any of you here, to sit on.’ Even without a microphone, Javier’s slight baritone echoes through the walls and ricochet on the fountains of holy water. ‘Let us all be kind and patient. Let not our intolerance tamper with the kindness that He has given us, and especially, not the kindness that each one of you have deep in your hearts.’ The various heads nod enthusiastically. ‘I can feel your kindness. All of you. It is very beautiful what each one of you has.’

When the mass finishes, there isn’t a single person that doesn’t go to Javier to shake his hand or experience the warmth of his chest when he hugs them. It has only been three weeks since he had moved to this town of serpentine streets next to the azure sea of the marriage of two oceans, and he still doesn’t remember all their names, the streets and the townspeople, but there isn’t anyone who isn’t talking about Father Javier and his tongue of honey, his own flute that attracted even those who were not devout, except he was no Hamelin and he led people together, not away.

It is a satisfactory job, Javier thinks, as he promises a shorter lecture next time (earning him a few shaking heads and pouting lips) and he retreats to the inner chambers and he stares at himself in the full body length mirror, admiring the pristine whiteness of his clerical vestment.

‘How does the cassock feel?’

The taller priest knocks at the wooden door while he leans on its frame. He himself wore the same type of garment albeit in black.

‘It’s heavier than I thought.’

‘It’s because it’s winter.’ The other man walks in, the tassels of the fascia around his hips dangling on his knees. ‘They try to suffocate you with the layers and layers of cotton, locally planted and harvested they insist. I feel like we are sausages in a puff pastry.’

Javier laughs as he hugs Daniil on a greeting, the mutual pats on their broad backs resonating with the nostalgia of their time in the secluded seminar. They are of the same age, a few weeks apart, brothers in arms in their shared space.

‘I didn’t you know you had been assigned here, Javier.’

‘I like the sea.’ He unbuttons the top of the cassock, carefully removing it so it wouldn’t wrinkle on the hanger by the closet on the corner. ‘I like the people here too.’

‘You’re quite the popular saint, aren’t you? Have you counted the number of people in your services? We might have to add benches in the nave soon if this continues.’

‘I must look particularly handsome on Sunday mornings.’

Javier smirks playfully as he adjusts the white clerical collar underneath his own olive shirt, both accentuating the hazelnut tint of his tamed curls. He jokes but there is truth imbued in the jest and he knows it. The pious who can recite the bible with their eyes blindfolded are loyal to the church while the high school girls (and boys) steal platonic glances and the bored housewives of a dozen relive in the negative reel of their mind the clamor of romance.

‘Vanity is a mortal sin, my friend.’

‘So is envy.’

Daniil waves his hand after deliberating about stretching his middle finger which has them both laughing at their camaraderie from the good old days. The good old days, Javier thinks, have long been forgotten and sealed in the coffin of his memories.

To serve is his calling. He wonders if that will ever change.

‘It’s a small town.’ He gives a final squeeze on Daniil’s shoulder before leaving the room. ‘What could ever happen here?’

‘You never know where the devil might be lurking.’

If it did, it would not be in him. Javier removes the rosary around his neck, the coral wood beads suddenly exerting excessive pressure on his nape and he shoves the knotted string on the pocket of his pants. The crucifix pokes on the muscle of his thigh even through the fabric and he mentally apologizes, when the latches of the front door disrupt the silence of the holy grounds.

It is a young man, equally frightened by the loud creak of the rusty hinges, bowing for his intrusion. He doesn’t seem to notice Javier and he roams by the aisles, observing all the scripture scenes in the statues and paintings with curiosity but also a resigned smile on the corners of his mouth. He has a haggard posture while he walks that morphs into a classical sculpture when he stands next to the offering counter, lighting the shortest candle he could find. The priest follows his movements in the shadows of his side of the church, he too in the silence of his own mind, but the gasp that escapes his throat is audibly loud in the emptiness of the nave as the newly arrived man stops in front of the stained-glass pane.

It’s Sunday morning, almost noon, and the sun shines its brightest whim at that moment, the sunrays penetrating the window and bathing the young stranger in crystalline blue and red ribbons. It is beautiful, Javier mutters to himself, the boy and the lilies projected on the tiles of the floor, the garden of Eden becoming alive from its restricting canvas. For a second, he is paralyzed by that apparition that seemed to change like a kaleidoscope under the lustrous glass leaves.

The young man walks to the altar, sliding his fingertips through the marble surface and he stares at it intently as if he could see his own reflection in the converging streaks and dots. Or maybe someone that looked exactly like him but wasn’t him at all.

‘Sorry,’ Javier’s legs finally recover volition and he walks to meet the stranger, ‘you cannot go into the chancel without permission.’ It is not blue and red his hair but a much more obscure shade, darker than black. His complexion too, slightly pale but still a tinge of rose on the cheeks and ears peeking through the disheveled strands. Javier has never seen him before during service time.

‘Are you the one to replace Father Daniil?’ The young man walks down the steps to the crossing, right in the middle of the church. He pulls and arranges the white scarf around his neck and the notch between his collarbones.

Javier nods and he chuckles at the sight of the battle between the two long ends of the wrapping (it is probably made of a mountain of cotton too) and the clumsy figure of the dark-haired stranger. ‘Are you looking for him?’

‘No.’ He smiles sheepishly, a knot in place lastly. ‘I came for the mass.’

The priest glances at his watch, the short hand right on top of the number 12. ‘It’s past noon already. We ended half an hour ago. You should have come earlier.’

The forlorn downward gaze of the stranger as he bites his lower lip and his thumbs digging into the skin of the folds cast a hammered beat of guilt on Javier’s chest that he doesn’t understand why.

‘I know.’ He taps the sole of his feet on the red carpet in a silent rhythm. ‘I knew it was today but I was really tired…’ The stranger smiles again, a much more self-conscious and pitiful curving of his mouth. ‘… I just fell asleep.’ He raises his head in a deep breath and he nods before turning to leave.

The diminishing silhouette of the mysterious man as he steps away is both alluringly puzzling and uncannily similar to himself, of how he too once walked away.

To serve, that is his calling. He wonders if he will ever doubt it.

‘There is mass too next week!’ He shouts from the altar, agitating the reverent quietude of the house. ‘You could come if you want!’

The breeze that flies in from the open door extinguishes the feeble flame of the candle the departed boy had lit.


	2. Part II - The Cat on the Piano Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of a miracle at the sea, the name Yuzuru, and music that is played without sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, I will add a glossary at the end because some of the 'technical' terms are rather unusual and I think it might help you when reading. Bear in mind that we are no experts in this theological field. Plot for plot's sake.
> 
> And needless to say that I wouldn't have delved into this if not for my partner in crime <3
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. Religious themes are not meant to offend anyone.

… and thus the sailors couldn’t maneuver the squared cotton sails and the masts broke into two with the roaring screeches of the thunder and the fury of the imminent lightning. No skilled hands could steer the helm away from the storm and no commander fought the waves that ravaged their anger on board. ‘It’s judgement day!’, wailed some, ‘May the sky have mercy on us!’, cried others, as their feet slipped on the soaked wood and their teeth gnawed the ropes to not drown.

In the same galleon ship was he, teacher of children that knew how to talk but not read and of men that knew how to write but not which words to scribe, and to the deck he rose from his bed in the hull. ‘Cry not for this is water, my friends, and not poison.’ His arms extended to the darkness above them, and as he muttered the name of Christ in each breath, his hands held the sobbing clouds and parted the veil of grey foam. Blue was the sky, so was the ocean that bathed them all in its infinite sapphire glow, to the horizon and beyond, where their eyes could not see.

‘The ship will not sink, young man, but where can we go?’ One asked, fearing the wind would have deserted them too. ‘To where He guides us,’ sat he among the fallen men, praying for their souls. ‘Water! Water! We will die of thirst before we reach land,’ shouted another, rolling the empty gallons through the deck, not a single drop in them. ‘First a flood, now a drought!’, desperation was felt at the tip of their tongues. ‘Doomed we are!’

‘Drink my fellow sailors, for this is water of life.’ And he from the sea pulled a bucket and scooped a cup for each of them present. There was no salt in the drink but the sweetness of vitality. And each man drank of that essence until their stomachs were full and their spirits lifted. ‘Have faith in the Lord for he will never abandon us.’ Blessed was this ship that conquered the mortal fears.

Blessed was this miracle on the palms of Saint Francis Xavier.

 

 

‘A young boy?’ The priest tries one of the communion wafers and grimaces. These had turned sour and he empties the jar.

‘A young man.’ Javier notes down the address to the bakery to replenish for later. ‘He came yesterday after the mass had finished.’ Candles, olive oil lamps, the inventory list was rather outdated.

‘Maybe a tourist. We sometimes do get a few visitors around here.’ Daniil sighs as he finishes counting the empty bottles of wine. There is only one left with a dark vermillion liquid and he pours it into two chalices, offering one to Javier.

‘Bishop Orser would have you scrub the floor for a week.’ He accepts it though, watching the concentric ripples that ran from one side to the other, almost spilling to his thumb.

‘Pity he is not here then.’

The bows of their containers contact each other, the rims clinking into a cheer shared by their cassocks only. It is wine, not blood, but when the chardonnay slides down Javier’s throat, the subtle richness leaves a bitter aftertaste that could not be washed away. Maybe it was spoiled too.

‘He wasn’t a tourist.’

‘Who?’

‘The boy who came.’ He sets aside the chalice, reaching for his glass of water instead. It was definitely sweeter. ‘I have never seen him but he knew your name.’

‘Not everyone comes to church, my friend. We don’t expect them to do so too.’

‘I know.’ The specter in blue and red flashes on his mind. ‘He just seemed rather lonely and,’ an apparition that had jumped out of a glass pane, ‘he said he wanted to attend mass but didn’t wake up on time.’

‘A young man with dark hair?’

Javier raises his gaze to Daniil and nods in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

‘I am in this town way longer than you have, Javier.’ For brief moments, the taller priest looks at the only window in the inner chambers, staring at the tiny particles of dust that levitated on the sunrays. He tries to catch a few but they just slip through his fingers. He finishes the wine, the same grimace on his brows. ‘It’s Yuzuru.’

‘Yuzuru?’ A name that he had never heard before as well.

‘He is a stray cat.’ Daniil chuckles at his own given description and even more when Javier tilts his head in confusion. ‘He will come to you when he needs you but if you try to pat him for his cuteness, he will run away even before you have stretched to his whiskers.’

‘Does he come often?’

‘He is a cat, Javier. And cats arrive during twilight and are gone by dawn.’ The taller priest pulls his trench coat stacked in between the different albs. ‘Why are you so interested in him?’

‘Nothing.’ The answer comes out quicker than he imagined. ‘Nothing. Just curiosity.’ He returns to the lines of the written records, the tip of his pencil breaking as he writes a random number.

‘Most people in this town have dogs. You should see that little broom from Ms. Lin fighting a German Shepherd twice its size.’ He feels a hand tapping on his shoulder. ‘But Javier, they find cats to be strangely annoying.’

The eleven chimes of the brass bell on the tower masked Daniil’s leaving steps before Javier could ask him more.

 

 

In the next Sunday mass, Javier finds himself walking down to where most people are seated. ‘In this long journey we call life, the life He has given us, have you ever found yourself in the eye of a storm?’ Row by row of pews and kneelers, covered heads and stripped bow ties. Some of them nod. ‘Not a hurricane that could you make soar quicker than any of your prayers.’ The children laugh and he too giggles especially for them. ‘But here. Exactly right here.’ Javier points to his temple, his steps slower now instead of sprinting. Flowered cashmere shawl, laced leather shoes, heavy blush, light makeup. ‘A storm in your own mind. A storm of emotions that pulls you away from Him. A storm of doubts and fears, fear of cockroaches, fear of being trapped, fear of losing someone. The fear of not being loved.’ Down to the foyer and quick glances at the aisles, an army official, an old man that can barely see despite his glasses, a baby sleeping peacefully with a pacifier. ‘But in this house that He has built for us, fear not. Fear not for your path will always be guided by His grace. Abandon your doubts.’ One last survey before he returns to the altar. ‘I want you all to rise and when you all answer me, I want you to release all the fears lodged in your heart, for Him and for your yourself. May the Lord’s wisdom be with you.’

The collective ‘Amen’ resonates throughout the nave to the ceiling, shaking the whole foundation underneath their feet. Javier can’t find the young man with black hair amidst the crowd. Perhaps cats were really nocturnal creatures.

After communion and the last teary handshakes from the usual attendees and their bibles tucked under their arms, Javier finishes sweeping the steps in the sanctuary as Daniil skims through a rather thin manila folder.

‘With your rising stardom my friend, we could use the help of someone.’ There are many names in the different flap divisions but the taller priest is not really reading them.

‘Didn’t you have an acolyte with you?’ A drop of sweat trails from Javier’s forehead until his jaw.

‘The retired banker? This winter has been particular tough on him. They say it’s pneumonia.’

A pigeon suddenly flies in, flapping its wings in the frantic exodus around the ceiling. It perches on the wood beam above the stained-glass panel, one of its longest feathers falling from its chest and descending the colored mirrors in slow motion.

‘Well, it’s your church now Javier. You should be the one to choose your assistants.’

‘You could be my altar boy.’ He winks at his fellow comrade, a fist landing on his forearm immediately.

‘Do you still remember when we used to hide the coins people dropped in the tabernacle?’

Javier nods, almost choking on the contracting waves of glee and mirth from his diaphragm. ‘How about when Bishop Orser almost swallowed one because we put them with the hosts?’

‘You were the one who said it was safer there.’

‘I wasn’t the one who mixed the wafer boxes before service.’

‘How smart of you, saint Xavier of the lost oil.’

‘Am I, saint Daniel of the lost incense?’

It’s the years of mutual conspiracy and collateral accomplice contracts sealed with their friendship that glimmers in their pupils. Daniil stretches his arms, sighing when he looks at the file again and he decides to close it without taking out any paper.

‘Did you sort everything out before you came here, Javier?’

He shrugs, a gesture so imperceptible that only the air notices it. ‘I don’t know. They just…’ The coo of the pigeon is a trumpet call in the arches of the church. ‘This is a small town after all.’

 

 

Saturdays are the only days the church closes earlier and Javier offers a rather simple leaflet entitled ‘Is your faith strong?’ to a couple who came on a weekend trip (there were really tourists who materialize to this town) when the girl bows in gratitude for letting them take a picture inside the sacred grounds. The sunset bathes the white walls with faint brushes of orange in an abstract painting that extends from one corner to the other. The warm light reflects on the windows so strongly and brightly the priest closes his eyes for brief seconds when the entrance door opens again, the hinges much softer this time but betrayed by the lever of the latch.

An apparition in red before and yet with the gold radiance around him now, Javier thinks it is the first time he sees an angel with dark hair. The young man dips his thumb in the holy water reservoir next to him and he quickly jumbles a few lines that resembled a cross from his shoulders down to his hips. Not the correct mark but what are gestures when the aim is more important, and the stranger stops walking immediately when he notices Javier.

‘Did I come late again?’ He hides his hands behind his back, trying to keep balance as he swings lightly on the balls of his feet.

‘There is no mass today.’ The young man has the same scarf as last time wrapped around his neck, a white ribbon made of clouds stolen from the sky. There is an urge in Javier to extend his hand and grab one of the hems and see if it was as supple as the cotton of his own cassock.

The priest doesn’t move an inch though.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘I seem to get things wrong all the time. I must look very stupid now.’ The same resigned smile adorns his lips and he turns around, tilting his head in a childlike manner.

‘Wait.’ There is a lump in Javier’s throat that he refuses to concede defeat and he gulps it together with the unsteady stings on his tongue. ‘The church is open to all those who need it.’

Also for the first time, the young man meets his eyes directly. Javier can’t read the night that spreads in them, the black hole that draws everything in, including himself, and he wonders if there is a bottom in that obsidian pit. The sudden unforgiving breeze that dishevels the dark strands also offers a sneeze, like a cat’s purr, and the priest invites him in, closing the door on winter’s face.

Saturdays are days for the scheduled maintenance of the scenes in the transept, of the railings in the mezzanine floor or replenishing the candles and the scrolls of the different prayers in the offering shelves, and Javier pretends to complete all the items in the checklist. Yet, his gaze follows the svelte silhouette of the young man wandering around like last time too. His steps are so light and silent in the carpet, almost levitating, almost like a cat that hops from one branch to another in a forest of cypress crowns, until he jumps to the organ on the far side of the aisle. He sits carefully on the leather covered stool, his feet stepping on the pedals but not applying pressure, the same with his fingers that glide across the fluctuating monochrome keys. He moves along the mute rhythm, swaying from west to east, shoulders sagging and mounting to a new movement that are conducted by the voiceless shapes that his mouth makes.

The church is silent but Javier swears he can hear the notes, every single one of them, filling the holy grounds with their joyful harmony.

‘Won’t you sing something?’ He regrets promptly when all the melodic progression stops, the young man joining his palms and cramming them between his thighs.

‘I don’t know any song.’

‘A nursery rhyme maybe?’

The dark-haired boy giggles, the tip of his fringe meeting his long eyelashes.

‘That wouldn’t be appropriate for the church.’

‘What is suitable then?’

Javier leans on the organ, his back inadvertently weighing on the lower pitch keys, the bass whisper reverberating in his trembling body. The unrestrained laughter of the young man at the priest’s frightened figure penetrates his skin until his bones and buries even deeper. It is the roar of a thunder in the storm of his mind and a whistle of a silver flute that calms the tempest.

It is beautiful.

‘That wasn’t suitable at all.’

‘What were you playing, Yuzuru?’

The laughter dies the moment he hears his own name. He shifts his gaze down and his fingers reaches for his knees, squeezing them in a bruising grip.

‘So you have heard.’

‘About what?’

‘About me.’

‘What about you?’

‘Nothing.’ Yuzuru sighs of unfelt relief and he just shakes his head. ‘Nothing at all.’ He points to the statue in front of them. ‘You really look like him.’

Javier diverts his eyes to the image of a man in a white and grey tunic, chestnut hair and beard, the cross of Christ in his right hand, his left holding his own rosary to his heart. The preaching stance of saint Francis Xavier.

When he turns his head around, the young man is almost at the foyer, waving him goodbye. There is a distance that he can’t measure in length between their bodies, perhaps lost in the silent music.

‘Thank you, Father Xavier!’

‘It’s Javier!’

Javier corrects the pronunciation of his name but Yuzuru has already left.


	3. Part III – Come All Ye Faithful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of an essay on blindness, Adeste Fideles, and a children's choir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, please forgive timelines as this is necessary for the sake of the plot. Also, this chapter hits a personal note as I was once too in a children's choir and the two songs mentioned in this chapter (Adeste Fideles and Nella Fantasia - a male version please) are personal favorites. Please do have them ready for maximum enjoyment if you want when reading this episode. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. It should be self-explanatory. 
> 
> P.S. - Love you my dear Mother_North for going through this journey together <3

… and thus were the three men in the middle of the arena below the scorching Sun of the desert that killed not with its heat but the drought it spread on the sand. A large cross, larger than their bodies and beyond rested on their bruised shoulders. ‘Criminals!’, the crowd shouted in unison. ‘Murderer of wives!’, cried the mothers of gone girls with fury that made the iron chains tremble. ‘Thieves of the poor!’, was the song of the homeless and they sang it with all their breath.

In the same arena was he, philosopher of the classical voices of the past imbued in wisdom and the voices that were yet to arrive drenched in hope. Small steps took he to the three men and their crosses he took to his own arms and laid them in the ground. He saw they were all three blind, colors lost from their sights but their faith not. ‘What do you mean, oh stranger?’, the chief of the town ordered him to stop. ‘There is no sin that does not weigh on one’s soul and no guilt that cannot be forgiven.’, said he as he touched the eyes of each of the three men.

‘By the laws inscribed by our ancestors we live and by these laws these men are criminals. Only by a miracle will their lives be spared.’ And as he lifted his hand from each of their faces, all three men started crying for they could see for the first time in their lives, how gold the sun was and how vast the blue sky extended above them. ‘Thank you, young man! We will follow you to where this world ends. We were wrong. We are wrong. Teach us the way to be.’ All three bowed to him but his head he shook. ‘Follow me not for I am just a man like you. Follow Him, for His grace is eternal and His kindness infinite.’ Blessed was the heat that bathed these men with repentance.

Blessed was this miracle on the palms of Saint Francis Xavier.

 

 

The number of people attending mass for the festive season is even higher than Javier had expected as he walks in front of the altar as he usually does for his weekly sermon. The weather has become whimsical with insistent showers every morning but there were no staccato of the raindrops on the window panes now and the interior of the church is warm with the myriad of cotton sweaters, with the puffs that escape the flushed lips and with the flames of the oil lamps scattered throughout the aisles.

The priest has long moved away from the lectern when he had finished reading the Scripture verse he has chosen for the week and he brings the microphone with him, almost tripping on the extensive and knotted wire. The gasps of worry are loud, ‘Is everything fine, Father?’, Javier nods and he smiles at his unusual clumsiness. It is not his heavy feet that hinders his pace but the stubborn will of his to search for a particular boy in the audience in its selective blindness for the surroundings.

‘It is only a couple more days until we welcome a new year into the biographies that each of one of us here is writing. Twelve months gone and twelve more to come, and you all wonder why the suffering has not yet left us.’ Perhaps he would have got the day right and he was only late. ‘You all clutch your hands while praying and what do we ask the Lord?’ Perhaps he would never come because his faith didn’t lie here. ‘Why does it still hurt? Why is my pain still so strong? Why is it so difficult to wake up in the mornings? Why can’t I offer more for my children? Why…’ Isn’t faith one single wick by which all candles kept their blaze alive? ‘Why not me and always the others?’ Why not him who shared the saint’s name and the same duty thrust upon his shoulders? Why choose nothing but the hollowness of an isolated house, caged in barren walls?

And yet there is he in his slumped silhouette against the back of the last bench, the closest one to the door, alone in his posture and abandoned in his demeanor, a few pews apart from all the others as if some invisible fence kept him out and away from the hearth of the collective worship. He sits with his legs crossed but not still, a sort of numb hyperactive energy in his hands that keep playing with the hems of the white scarf on his lap and Javier thinks he too will be swept by that stamina.

‘Why do we ask for more when He has given us everything? Why–’

A small cat meows in the middle of the question, the high-pitched cry echoing in the glass panes to the copper pipes leading to the bells. The villagers all turn around in a perfectly synchronized spin to Yuzuru, who picks up the kitten and holds it to his chest, patting the pointy ears and exchanging kisses with their noses. Even from far, Javier notices the chocolate and butter spots of its fur, a sharp contrast with the black hair of the young man, but from the face to the whiskers, the calico coat seems like an extension of the dark locks.

Unpredictable dots, a pattern that shifts with the light. A combination of colors that never changes and yet is always different when one spins with kaleidoscope.

‘The little one wants to join us in this glorious day.’ Javier chuckles at the sight of both cats but murmurs hidden behind palms and shaking heads in the nave cast a sturdier shadow than the clouds that had gathered outside. ‘Today is the day we forfeit the whys and why nots, and today is the day we let the chains of seeking reason break. Let us be content.’ A faint thunder can be heard. It must be divine providence. He clears his throat. ‘Let us greet our neighbors, the person sitting next to you, in front and behind. Let us thank each other for the love our hearts are able to give, just as we thank Him for all He has bestowed us.’ Javier too walks down the steps and he partakes in the firm handshakes, on the chaste kisses on one’s cheek and the embraces with open arms.

When he reaches the last few rows, the kitten is sleeping peacefully, curled into a ball and its paws clutching to the cotton of the bed made by the scarf. Yuzuru is already gone.

 

 

 

‘Are we ready to start?’

The random notes on the organ hammered by the twin girls sharing the stool cease and they rush back to their places in the group, stepping into the toes of the one that always wore a purple ribbon on her hair and elbowing the boy with a bandana and a hippy pin. The children’s choir is as lively as Javier expected, ponytails pulled by the taller members and flying sheets that seemed impossible to land in one’s fingers and favoring gravity. They are all eager to commence practicing, but the song list is empty.

‘What shall we sing, Father? We have never done this before.’

‘Yes, it was always grandma who would do this with her friends.’

‘My grandma too!’

‘Mine too! It was really scary. One time a glass broke during dinner.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Our dog refuses to go into our home when my grandma sings.’

‘Sometimes the TV loses signal for a few minutes.’

‘That’s a lie too.’

‘It’s not!’

‘How about each one of us choose a song we like?’ Javier feels a single trail of sweat run down his back as he calms the children. They all nod and discuss among themselves what they listen to at schools, most of them unknown for the priest but he enjoys sitting there with them, laughing with their uninhibited giggles and he too spilling stories of when he and Daniil used to pretend they were suffering from food poisoning so they didn’t have to perform in ensembles of senior members.

The eldest of the group, probably still in middle school, is able to improvise a few melodies of popular carols and Javier hums along until the girl with white hair like threads of snowflakes and pale crimson rubies for eyes points out his inability to sustain a note and the funny sounds he makes, almost like a goat in the wild. The priest feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment and he tickles her in retaliation. Amidst the joy of their canons and cadences, he thinks he hears the front door open but it must be a prank of his imagination.

‘What is your favorite song, Father Javier?’

‘Yes, so we can include it too!’

‘Hmm…’ He seriously ponders it, a series of refrains and chimes unrolling like the peg of a music box in his head. He counts with his fingers, not this one, not that one too, until he no longer knows if he prefers music or sheer silence. ‘I don’t know.’

‘C’mon Father, there must be one.’

‘What do the angels sing to you?’

‘The angels?’ He instinctively looks at the stained-glass window as if he would find one there.

‘When you can’t sleep, Father, and the angels visit you.’

‘But only if you behave well.’

‘A gift from an angel,’ he wonders if celestial beings also like cats, ‘ _Adeste Fideles_ then.’

All the children look at him in confusion and their furrowed brows remind Javier so much of Bishop Orser that he bends forward, clutching his stomach so the cramp would dissipate.

‘It’s a very difficult song.’ The boy at the organ plays the first sentence and the different voices break into all sort of expletives. Some nod in recognition of the harmony but most find themselves mumbling simple syllables as they search for the lyrics.

‘We can choose another one.’ The priest stands up, stretching his legs and swaying his hips. It is a strange dance that tests his agility, though the pain at his lower back proves him otherwise.

‘But it is the one you like best, Father.’

‘Then an angel will probably sing it to me tonight.’

The same kitten from the service earlier jumps seamlessly from its stealth hideout to the monochrome keys, frightening all of them present, including the tiny animal, in an uncanny déjà vu of the sudden disorganized chords. Perhaps cats were fonder of music than angels. The church falls silent except for Javier’s own frantic heartbeat against his ribcage that could become its own solo.

‘ _Oh come all ye faithful._ ’

A tentative progression in a voice that Javier recognizes and yet he has never heard those words in such a gentleness. A gentleness that is almost docile in the first tingle on the back of his neck, a touch that lingers but fades when one tries to catch it.

_‘Joyful and triumphant,_

_Oh come ye, Oh come ye to Bethlehem._

_Come and behold Him,_

_Born the King of Angels'_

No, it is not feeble the touch nor it is a petal that is blown away by the caprice of the winter breeze. It is shy in its path but it wants to be noticed, like a mantle of foam of the seas that vanishes on the waves and yet it wets the grains of sand.

_'Oh come, let us adore Him,_

_Oh come, let us adore Him,_

_Oh come, let us adore Him,_

_Christ the Lord.’_

Javier blinks a couple of times, vision and depth returning to him when he is not even aware that he had lost them at the sound of Yuzuru singing. A momentary blindness exalted by the purity of the tenor notes that reverberates in all his cells still.

‘That was the song, wasn’t it?’

Yuzuru tiptoes his way behind Javier to the benches where the children are sitting. He chooses the carpeted floor though, hugging his knees to the chest until his ankles contacted the thighs. He is almost the same height as most of them in that posture, except for some of the taller girls.

‘Yes.’ The answer from the priest is barely perceptible. ‘Yes, it was.’ The kitten insists in jumping to the younger man’s lap with a spoiled lash of its tail. ‘It is.’

‘Yes!’ It is the first time that the boy at the organ shows the enthusiasm covered under his precociously mature stance. ‘Yes! Did you hear it, Father Javier?’

‘Yes.’ Javier notices the blooming rose hues on the newly arrived man’s cheeks that spreads to his ears. All his diligence is devoted to the infant feline but he presses his lips together to censor a smile.

‘It’s Yuzuru! Everyone knows him.’ The girl with silver hair runs from her place and sits besides him. ‘He has the best voice in town.’ The next intake of air is almost a sigh of relief as he regains the sensitivity on his spine that had been stiffened by her words. ‘Sing us another song!’

‘I’m sorry.’ Yuzuru shakes his head. ‘I only know that one.’

‘Sing it again then. Again and again.’

‘I’m afraid Father Xavier will get bored.’

‘It’s Father Javier.’ She corrects him in her mock-adult stern voice.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ The kitten digs her claws into his wrists and he hisses at the scratch that felt like a bite instead. ‘To have the name of a saint.’

‘Me too!’ The eldest of the group neglects the instrument and also sits by his dark-haired idol. ‘I’m Alexander. You can call me Alex. It’s easier.’

‘Not just a saint but a king too.’

Parallel to how gale spreads fire across a forest, Javier sits at the now empty stool of the organ as he watches how the children have all gathered in a circle around the young man in a cacophony of inquiries and tales that were half mythical in themselves. They all seem to be enchanted by this mysterious stranger and the priest wonders if it is the enigmatic smile or that dim glow on his nightly pupils that harvests their unwavering attention. Names and games soon morph into an organized orchestra of voices, bass and sopranos, strong roars and tender whispers, a few meows too, all conducted by Yuzuru who ignites a spark that can’t be extinguished.

Javier swears he has never heard of a sincerer _Ave Maria_ even if the prayer is replaced by the incessant iteration of the name of the Virgin Mary.

‘I’m sorry.’ The young man stands next to Javier as some of the children pack their notebooks and leave, waving merrily at the two of them, while others hop their way home. ‘I shouldn’t have interfered.’

‘No.’ He hands in Yuzuru his white scarf that he had retrieved from the sanctuary as they were practicing. It is really of a thick braid of cotton, just like his cassock. ‘You really saved me.’

The young man wraps it around his neck a few times, not allowing any long hems to dangle. The fabric covers his mouth and nose at first and he experiments pulling and yanking it away until it bundles in the right tightness. It is the same guileless clumsiness and Javier smirks at it.

‘You must come for the New Year recital, Yuzuru!’

‘Yes! Please come!’

The two leftover children each grab one of his arms, hauling and towing him in an uncomfortable see-saw motion.

‘I shouldn’t.’ He casts his gaze downward to the tip of his trainers, not once lifting his eyes. ‘I’m… it’s a busy time and… they are not…’

‘Do it Yuzuru.’ Javier wonders what it will take for the young man’s smile, thick in resignation and fake serenity, to turn into a genuine one. ‘For the children.’ He points at Alex and the girl with light hair. ‘For them.’ For yourself, but these words stay lodged at the back of his throat.

‘You heard Father Javier.’

‘Come please! Father Javier wants you too.’

Yuzuru only nods.

 

 

 

The first day of the new year seems to have arrived with even more anticipation than most would have foreseen. Crosses on the last numbers of the month and the flipping of pages of calendars, the bells of the church mark the advent of a brand novel cycle and renewed vows. The bouquets of lilies and carnations are fragrant but not intoxicating as Daniil walks by the alternated and decorated pews, greeting the townsfolk and even some unfamiliar faces. He sits on the first row, next to Javier who is also saluting the crowd that does not stop growing.

‘I never thought you would pull this off.’ The taller cleric gives a good pat on Javier’s shoulder while the latter fixes the white collar and his rosary.

‘I didn’t do it all by myself.’

‘With his help?’ Daniil points at the statue of saint Francis Xavier.

Javier shakes his head as the commotion on the nave lapses into tranquility. ‘With a cat.’

From both sides, the sanctuary is filled with the children of the choir, all dressed in white tunics, some plain, other with frills and laces, and each with a pair of small wings on their backs, in a procession of angels who had descended the heavens to grace the mortals with their beatitudes and the blessings of the gospel in their voices. The chorus of their troupe march through the halls of the holy house, filling every brick on the ceiling and every plank on the ground with their cheerful hymns and small gestures accompanying each sentence that pantomime the flight of a dove or the sprouting of an olive branch. Even with the minor errors that they laugh about and the occasional out of tune key from the organ, their joy is contagious and soon the entire audience is clapping when they bow after finishing _Adeste Fideles_.

Javier is particularly proud of their effort, his palms joining with the highest resonance for them. He searches among them for the dark-haired tenor but he is not there. The ovation continues and yet the applause seems to be engulfed by a void that he is not sure if it is in the air or in himself, a gap that steals from him a random heartbeat and spews back disappointment.

Until the girl with the silver hair, glimmering on the feathers of her wings, runs down the improvised steps and she pulls Yuzuru out from the curtains hiding the inner chambers and drags the much taller boy to the center of their ensemble, right on the spot of the standing microphone.

It is not one heartbeat that the void steals but two, and when the hollow closes and returns all it has taken from Javier, his chest can’t contain it all at once and it threatens to disrupt his balance.

‘What are you doing, Maya?’ It is a whisper so his voice is not caught on the amplifier.

‘Sing Yuzuru! That song you always play when you are alone.’

‘I want to hear it!’

‘Me too!’

‘Please.’

She interlaces Yuzuru’s fingers with her chubby ones and they all jump to a hug him, his forearms, his elbows, his waist, his knees, any part they could hold on to. The same murmurs arise from the pews that Javier can’t decipher but the curtain of silence falls again when the young man lets the first breath leave his lips.

Maybe it is not silence. Maybe it is just him who can’t hear someone else but Yuzuru.

 

_Nella fantasia io vedo un mondo giusto._

(In my fantasy, I see a fair world.)

_Lì tutti vivono in pace e in onestà._

(Everyone lives in peace and in honesty there.)

 

In my imagination, I see a world where I too overflow with miracles at the tip of my fingers, where the sails of my ship will never lose direction in the ocean of my faith.

 

_Io sogno d'anime che sono sempre libere,_

(I dream of souls that are always free,)

_Come le nuvole che volano,_

(Like clouds that fly,)

 

I dream of a soul that soars into the sky that reaches the infinite but it always returns home to my arms, my own soul, liberated but delivered by an angel.

 

_Pien d'umanità in fondo all'anima._

(Full of humanity in the depths of the soul.)

 

By the hands of an angel with obscure hair, darker than black.

Javier and Yuzuru both open their eyes at the same time, staring into each other despite being divided by the altar.

A single tear trails down the priest’s face, his tongue tasting the saltiness of the drop on his lips.


	4. Part IV - Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of a last miracle, two baptisms and lips that burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all, this is the last chapter of this first installment! *pats Mother_North's and my own back* Things are supposed to up a gear for the drive on the next one so thanks to all of you who have given your support! We really appreciate it <3
> 
> It is never too late to say that this fic is not meant to offend anyone nor make a critique of religion. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of FICTION. Self-explanatory. Art for art's sake.

… and thus laid the youth on the inhumanely cold tiles of the floor, his eyes shrunken into the sockets and completely white, clearer than untarnished snow and lighter than cotton flowers. None of his limbs moved, not even when the ground shook under his flaccid body. The other youth comes to the room, jolly words on his mouth and gaiety on his steps, but the grapes he bites fall to his feet as he sees the corpse of his friend abandoned in the night. ‘Innocent and healthy was he! What is this plague to fall under our roof?’

And in the same inn was he, warrior of unseen evils that cursed the deaf and vicious thoughts that possessed the mute. From the inner chapel he left and the elevated sobs he followed to the room of the two youths. ‘My boy and catechist, why do you disturb those who need rest?’ As he lighted the olive lamp by his side, a huge snake wrapped the lifeless youth around its scales and two hollow fang marks adorned his neck. ‘Father! The devil has enslaved him. My dear friend and your apprentice!’

‘Be not afraid for the heart in the Lord will always be protected by His grace.’ And by the fallen youth he crouches, the cobra crawling away at the sight of his silver rosary. ‘Beware Father of His mercy. My master was once an angel too.’ The serpent’s voice is seductive but he listens to none. ‘You are just human and your hearts are bathed in sin.’ The reptile body vanishes in the quietude of the night.

The body of the youth he takes to his arms and he lays him to bed. ‘Return to us, lost soul. May you not wander in the dark any longer.’ His fingers to his own mouth he lifts, wetting them with his own saliva, and on the purple marks he draws a cross. The poison recedes and the pale complexion morphs into a rose bud. ‘Rise my boy, for you will always be His faithful servant and your master loves you.’ Another cross he engraves on the lips and the youth opens his eyes, the intake of air like an infant that breathes for the first time. From the dead he rose and from death he was free. Blessed was the pilgrimage they took and the journey they fought.

Blessed was this last miracle on the palms of Saint Francis Xavier.

 

 

The air by the berth almost tastes savory as the two priests cross the chains of the closed pier in need of renovations. The tide is low and there are barely any waves, only faltering ripples at the surface of the water that kisses the cement steps and the wild mussels on the abandoned wooden foundations. A fisherman’s boat is docked nearby and a flock of seagulls harasses them as they pull their large nets to the shore with flapping tails, crabs hanging by their pincers and dancing squid arms. A few of the sailors lift their arms in a greeting and Javier nods, acknowledging their presence and returning the same compliment.

‘Did saint Xavier also preach for the fish to come to the nets and hooks?’ Daniil sits by the ground, on the driest spot.

‘Yeah, he did.’ The other cleric does the same. ‘He told the fishes to jump directly onboard to their doom.’

‘You need to be way funnier if you want to keep your popularity.’

‘And you less annoying.’

They cheer with their coffees, each one a latte from the best café in town, as they keep trading mock insults and a few punches that spill their drinks (luckily) to their black pants. Stains are blotches that ruin a painting but for the two of them, their canvas are filled with ink that had spread and made the picture even prettier.

‘The coffee here is not bad.’ The taller priest savors the bitterness on his tongue, in a stance of a proper connoisseur. ‘But it could be better.’

‘Missing the holy touch?’ It is smooth and fragrant, the aroma of slightly charred beans and the bustling foam that melts in one’s tongue, and yet Javier agrees with his partner.

‘You bet it is.’

Daniil inserts his hand inside his jacket, his fingers searching for something in the inner pockets. He smirks when he retrieves a rather small bottle, modestly shorter than his palm, without any label or brand. The brownish liquid inside sways from the neck to the bottom as he tilts the glass flask in front of Javier’s eyes, who is unable to contain his laughter and a cramp threatens to attack his guts.

‘Are you really a priest?’

‘The same as you, my friend.’ He pulls out the tiny cork in a pop motion that sounded louder than both of them expected and he pours first for Javier. ‘Daydreaming on Father Mishin’s Latin translation, locking Elder Briand in the liturgical room in the Saturday seminar, having my heretic books and your damnable magazines confiscated by Bishop Orser. The same vows, my friend.’

‘Chastity and obedience.’ Javier offers to pour Daniil’s his share of the spirit.

‘May the Lord forgive us.’

‘Amen.’

Their cups touch once again and they both nod at the satisfaction of the alcohol blended with the dark brew, the residual heat elevating the faint oak essence, masked by the childishness of the syrup. It is delicious and they finish the drink in silence, not a drop to waste.

‘Aren’t you supposed to keep an eye on me?’

‘Am I not, Javier? You haven’t had a good drink in a long time, that’s why I’m giving you this.’ Daniil points to the empty glass bottle. ‘Because of you, I’m much busier than before.’

‘How many are they asking for?’ It was said on the radio in the morning that it would rain but the sky is clear of clouds and their clerical collars are strictly hot under the sun.

‘As many as they like.’

‘Nothing really happens in this town.’ Javier crushes the paper cup under his grip. ‘Nothing. It’s a small town after all.’

‘Well,’ the other priest rubs a tiny pebble, probably a chip from the cement, between his fingers and he throws it at the sea, disturbing the stillness of the water, ‘Yuzuru happens.’

Javier feels as if that stone had hit his head instead of the coast. ‘What about Yuzuru?’

‘He has an amazing voice, doesn’t he? I almost cried like you did that day.’

‘It was so beautiful.’ As if each note had been sung directly from heaven to his soul. Almost like when he had heard his calling for the first time.

‘What do you think of him?’

‘He…’ Javier stands up and walks to the closest trash can, throwing the crumpled coffee cup. The short voyage gives him time to ponder about that wandering cat with dark hair, a stranger that materialized from the stained glass and comes when no one is around and disappears in the same silence he dwells in. ‘He is good with the children and they like him a lot too. They won’t come to practice if he is not there.’

‘Do you want him?’

‘What?!’ His voice is slightly higher as he slips back to the same berm next to Daniil, the first wave of the day crashing against the bricks and dribbles a few drops on the tip of his leather shoes.

‘In the choir.’ The taller priest laughs at that impromptu falsetto. ‘Do you want him to be in the choir?’

The next intake of air is a sigh of relief and Javier laughs it off too. ‘It would break the children’s heart if we forbade him. What’s the deal?’

‘It’s a small town, my friend. You have said so.’ The tide is rising and the subsequent currents throw salt flowers at their ankles. ‘It was a beautiful concert but people talk.’

‘About what?’

‘The streets are clean here because there are no stray dogs roaming the pavements. They all have an owner.’

‘You should be a poet instead of a priest.’

‘Who says I can’t be both?’

The silver rosary falls from the pocket of his pants and Javier picks it up. The various sized beads all weigh differently on his palm and he wonders if the crucifix was as heavy before. ‘That choir belongs to Yuzuru.’

‘But the hymns are ours. And those who sing them must be part of our faith. You know this perfectly well, Javier.’

He tilts his head, confusion in his eyes. The saltiness of the ocean breeze dries his throat and thirst is starting to poke his stomach. ‘Isn’t Yuzuru baptized? He comes to church quite often.’

Daniil shakes his head. ‘The church is our home but that doesn’t make either of us saints or martyrs. The house of the Lord is a refuge for stray cats, especially when it rains. We don’t close the doors to them but we can’t feed them forever. They too probably wish for an anchor in their turbulence.’ He squeezes Javier’s shoulder. ‘Now, am I not the poet?’

‘A genius born in the wrong era.’ He notices the time on the wrist watch of the other priest. The hands on the screen mark 4:29. It is already twilight. ‘How do you know all these things?’

Daniil stretches his arms and legs, a cramp assaulting his left leg and the numbness on the other floundering his sensations. ‘I’ve been here longer than you have Javier.’ He stands up, stomping his feet like a child because of the stinging pain. ‘And you’re right. This is a rather small town.’

 

 

The sky has almost been fully covered by the starry curtain by the time Javier returns to the church, the last streaks of fuchsia and mauve lingering in the horizon, waiting for the sun to fall asleep to the lullaby of the waning moon. The girl with the long, argent hair waves to him as she walks down the steps of the place, hopping each of them with the help of her mother.

‘Are you the last one, Maya?’ Javier jumps and lands on the ground with her on the last stride.

‘Yes. Yuzuru was teaching me the cat’s song.’ The lace at the hem of her dress blooms like a chamomile as she twirls.

‘The cat’s song?’ He greets the older woman who is ordering her daughter to stand still.

‘It’s a secret. I promised Yuzuru not to tell you.’

‘Maya!’ The little girl stops at the stern yell. ‘What manners are these? I knew that boy wasn’t good company. Apologize to Father Javier.’

‘It’s okay.’ He crouches in front of the child and he fixes the cotton headband that had already fallen to her eyebrows. ‘Will you sing it to me?’

‘You should ask Yuzuru to sing it. He always sings better when you’re there, Father Javier.’ A silver car, not as lustrous as her hair, stops on the other side of the street and the little girl dashes to the driver, the man probably her father.

There is no one left in the church, except for Yuzuru who is seated by the organ and his fingers tiptoe on the uneven keys, just how Javier first saw him on that instrument, the digits arched and pretending to render a melody without ever applying pressure, the harmony lost within himself.

Javier wonders if he will ever hear the notes from his hands.

‘Is this the cat’s song?’ He stands next to the young man, a notebook on his lap with a few arrows and crosses about an arrangement for the children.

‘Are you brave enough to listen to it?’ Yuzuru bites his lower lip, trying not to grin too broadly. Javier nods, curious about the secret that he shared with the little ones but not with him. ‘Close your eyes then.’

The cleric obeys and he hears a pencil falling to the ground followed by the dispersing pages of an open folder. He knows the other man is shifting around, his jeans rubbing on the leather of the stool, and he furrows his brows.

‘No peeking. Don’t cheat.’

‘I’m not–‘

Just as he opens his mouth to refute the accusation, a grainy and rugged mass runs up his nose to the bridge, leaving a wet trail to where it licked. He jolts backwards, regaining his vision immediately but losing balance and almost stumbling at the contact. Yuzuru laughs loudly and impishly as he holds the kitten to his face, trading eskimo kisses himself.

‘Did you like it?’ He sits on the nearest bench, feet on top of the kneeler. ‘The cat’s song.’

‘It has a rather rough quality to it. Maybe it’s more suitable on the G major scale.’

‘Not everything must be polished, right?’ The infant feline is soon curled under the fondles and caresses of the back of Yuzuru’s hand, from the tip of the ears to the last hair on the tail.

‘Have all the children gone home?’ Javier removes his coat, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up. Winter seemed not to have invaded the nave.

‘Yes, just now. Thank you, Father, for letting me be part of the choir.’

‘The children love you. Everybody loves you.’

It is the same pitiful chuckle and the way the corners of his mouth curve into the resigned smile, a beggar with nothing but a ball of fur to keep him warm. The expression only stays for a fraction and his two black eyes, the two obsidian marbles glow with the varnish of a new lie.

‘You really look like saint Xavier, Father.’ The young man points to the statue behind the priest. ‘Have you already done your miracle for today?’

‘If the world is in peace, we can give miracles a holiday.’

‘There is always someone praying for a miracle.’ Yuzuru lifts the kitten carefully so it won’t wake up, extending the animal to Javier. ‘Won’t you adopt her?’

‘You should keep her. She is used to you already.’

‘I can’t.’ He places a chaste kiss on top of her wooly head. ‘My father would never allow a stray cat in his home. Please?’

The priest nods and takes the baby cat into his arms. Perhaps it would clear the fog in Yuzuru’s eyes. The whiskers of the kitten tickle his exposed wrists as she nudges closer to the inside of his elbows and the impotent purrs are like pleas that he wants to soothe. ‘What is her name?’

‘She doesn’t have one.’

‘Give her one. A name as beautiful as she is.’

‘Strawberry Shortcake.’

‘That’s too long. She will never remember it.’

‘Cream Puff then.’

‘Why not one word only?’

‘Hmm… Éclair it is.’

Javier sighs at the list of desserts. ‘How about… Effie?’

‘Effie, Effie,’ Yuzuru chants the suggestion over and over, ‘I like it. It rhymes with your name, Father _Javi_.’

There is something in the way his name is called that creates the lump at his throat, making his breathing just a little quicker to compensate for the reduced air flow. _Javi_. A secret between the two of them. The cat wakes up and she licks his thumb, a couple of lethargic meows as she tries to roll in his embrace.

‘You’ve just fulfilled the quota of your miracle of the day, Father.’

‘Do you think I could make one more?’

‘Who else needs it?’

 _You and I. The two of us_. ‘Won’t you be my acolyte, Yuzuru? I need someone to help in the church and you seem to know more than anyone else. Besides…’ Yuzuru is already shaking his head but he takes a step forward anyway. ‘… I don’t know how to take care of Effie.’

‘I’m sorry Father.’ The young man picks up the different stationery on the wooden floor, the music sheets and the red pens. ‘I can’t.’

‘Is this because of your faith?’ Yuzuru doesn’t answer and quickly shoves the materials into his messenger bag at the pedals of the organ. ‘I can baptize you Yuzuru.’

Yuzuru raises his gaze to the priest, surprise tattooed in them. ‘Really?’ The smile is subtle but genuine. ‘Can I?’

‘Yes.’ What is the name one gives to the growing excitement that threatens to erupt too abruptly? ‘We could do it on the next service, not tomorrow but next Sunday. There are enough witnesses.’

‘No.’ The haggard shoulders and wilted posture has returned to the young man’s silhouette. ‘No. I can’t. I can’t do this. They won’t like it. They will never…’ He puts the bag around him, adjusting the strap. ‘I can’t do this you, Father.’ He turns to leave.

‘Wait!’ Effie jumps from his arms and lands next to the candlestick of saint Javier’s image. She plays with the ember on the wax, trying not to burn her paws. ‘We could do it some other time. And without anyone. Just you and I, the two of us, in the presence of God.’

Yuzuru hesitates but his hands draw into fists, the nails digging into his palm. ‘I’m sorry.’ His steps are silent in the carpeted aisle as he walks away hastily.

 

 

It is exactly eight days since the last time Javier has seen Yuzuru. The weekly mass proceeds as usual, Scripture and sermon (about misunderstandings and forgiveness), communion and the final reminder of love thy neighbor. The choir sings in the interludes but their voices lack their cheerful childlike enthusiasm, to which the townsfolks blame the arrival of the seasonal flu that also makes angels ill.

It is a small town after all.

The copper bells of the tower chime the last peal when someone knocks on the back door, right besides the inner chambers. Javier has unbuttoned his cassock but not yet removed it, and he unlocks the latch.

‘Yuzuru.’

The young man stands by the tiled doorstep, his hair disheveled by the storm outside, a few snow flakes in the strands that rivalled the shades of his white scarf. The same cotton scarf.

‘Father Javier.’ He wears a long brown coat, too large for his shoulders, right for his height. He removes his mittens once he comes in, blowing warm puffs of air to his hands. ‘Am I too late?’

The priest fastens his clerical vestment, suddenly too aware of his neglected garment and his sloppy appearance. ‘For what?’

‘You and I.’ He bites his lips like all the times he was too nervous and couldn’t delegate the right words in his mind. ‘The baptism. Only the two of us. And God.’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘I would very much like to do this.’

Javier smiles of relief, of compassion, of the sincerity of the moment, of all three things together and even more. ‘Wait for me.’

It is already evening, the snow turning into rain on the latticed window panes and the church is filled only with the discord of the tempest striking the roof and the entrance doors. Javier guides Yuzuru to the fountain of the holy water, both of them standing face to face, and he offers the young man a white cloth with a golden embroidered border to hold. He notices his hands are shaking, so are his own.

‘What name do you wish the Lord to know you, my child?’

‘May he call me Yuzuru.’

Javier immerses his hands on the water on the basin, washing them and drying on the cloth in Yuzuru’s possession.

‘What do you ask of God’s grace for?’

‘To allow my faith to be known to him.’

He does the same as the priest, yelping at the coldness. The cloth is wet with both their fingerprints, side by side.

‘By the will Christ has bestowed upon me, I ask of you, will you follow the practices He has taught us and honor your faith and the love in you?’

There is no doubt in his gaze. ‘I promise you.’

‘By the mystery of Your undying mercy and infinite kindness, bathe this child in light and give him a new life through baptism.’

Javier finishes the prayer and he approaches Yuzuru, who stands in front of the angel on the stained glass and the field of the lilies of the valley. An apparition out of the garden of Eden. ‘May the Father guide you to the path of wisdom.’ He dips his thumb in the holy water and he draws the symbol of a cross on the dark-haired youth’s forehead. He sees himself reflected on the pupils, only him and no one else. There is only him in Yuzuru. ‘May the Son cultivate the strength of your heart.’ His thumb drops to his chest, painting another crucifix on top of the sternum. The young man’s heart beats too fast, the frantic rhythm of crescendos and plunging ribs spreading to his own pulse and he presses slightly too hard on the bone. They both hiss at the same time, the sharp inhalation stabbing their lungs in unison. ‘May the Holy Spirit free you from all sin.’ Javier lifts his finger to the parted lips, dragging the final cross on the flushed, moist flesh. They close on the tip of his thumb and he retrieves his hand immediately, burnt by the infinitesimal longer seconds.

It is the first time he touches Yuzuru.

‘Father Javier?’

He is paralyzed by the intensity of that thorn that pierced through his skin.

‘May you be blessed with the glory of eternal life.’

It hurts.

‘You are now part of this church by the power of this baptism.’

It feels good.

‘You belong to Christ now, Yuzuru.’

It feels _too_ good.

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:  
> *Communion Wafer/Bread/Host: a think round slice of bread that is used in the Eucharist and symbolizes the body of Christ.  
> *Tabernacle: a small compartment/box where the communion wafer and wine is stored.  
> *Nave: the central part of the church where people normally sit.  
> *Chancel, including the Sanctuary: the inner part of the church after the altar where only clergy people are allowed to enter.  
> *Cassock/alb: long tunic/garments that priests and assistants wear. These are normally white or black, though other colors are also allowed.  
> *Fascia: the sash of the cassock/alb  
> *Transept: transverse part of a building. In a church designed as a cross, it is the 'shortest stick'.  
> *Pew: the benches in a church. These can include a kneeler so people's knees do not have to touch the ground directly.  
> *Acolyte: an assistant to the priest during service. This person also performs other duties in the church, such as lighting candles, keeping records, and so forth.


End file.
